


No words needed

by DirtyHand



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blindfolds, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort if you really squint, M/M, Master/Pet, Post-Recall, So many tags I wanted to put but I just delete them all in the end, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 00:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirtyHand/pseuds/DirtyHand
Summary: We all make choices. Sometimes we choose to be cruel. Sometimes we choose not to. Other times, we just don't want to.Where Jean-Baptiste Augustin lands himself an unlikely companion, and gets his heart all tangled over. He can't name what this is, between them. He finds himself caring more than he should, in ways crueler than he thought. He gives, and he takes, and it feels good.





	No words needed

The bed dips under his knee. Jack isn’t moving, holding still on all fours. Legs parted like he wants him. But his head turns responsively, eyes searching but unseeing beneath the blindfold. 

 

Baptiste moves. Steady and quiet, skin taut and glistening with sweat. Jack inhales as if he could smell him, a high flush to his cheeks. _He probably could_ , Baptiste thinks to himself. Super soldier and all. The sheets rustle, a rhythmic hiss, until he settles in front of the man sprawled out in front of him.

 

Gently, like touching the delicate curve of a vase, he reaches out and strokes his palm along the muscular back. Feeling the tension weep away under his touch, goosebumps forming where he his fingers trail. It’s exhilarating, watching how much the old man craves his touch. His affection. Jack breathes, sags forward like he can’t stop himself, until his cheek bumps against the meat of Baptiste’s thigh. There he kisses, slowly and reverently up the strong, thick muscle. 

 

When no hand comes to stop him, Jack lets out a pleased sigh that almost sounds like a purr. Baptiste leans back, eyelids heavy as he watches the lips move - first chaste and then increasingly sultry - up his inner thigh and pelvis until a pink, wet tongue teases the hairy base of his cock. Watches the dazed happiness on Morrison’s face as the sweaty musk hits his nostrils. 

 

Then he grips his hair, yanks him back, and slaps him hard on the face. 

 

The smack is loud, faintly echoing in the room. Jack recoils, disoriented as he is chided out of the happy haze, left cheek stinging and burning. But he returns swiftly. Back to where he was, head bowed.

 

Baptiste can hear the shocked gasp, the hard swallow. Can feel the tremble under his palm when he puts his hand on the back of Jack’s neck, guiding him up. 

 

“Shh,” he coos gently, several times. Rests his palm on Jack’s head, his thumb stroking on the tip of his ear. The hair is soft to the touch, silver strands thin and almost dreamy against the darker, chocolate brown of his skin. He lets Jack put his head on his chest. Lets him bury his face against his muscle for a moment, knowing it calms him. To feel Baptiste’s body, to feel the strength and solidity of his body. He cups Jack’s chin, tilting it up to look at him even though he is blinded by the rough black fabric around his eyes. 

 

“Did I say you could touch my dick?” 

 

Baptiste’s voice is gruff and dangerous in the dark, and Jack shakes his head. Swallows. Trying to lean forward, to rub his cheek against his master’s skin to show he’s sorry. “You’ve been so good. Don’t make me punish you. Do you hear me?” 

 

Jack nods, once. Baptiste narrows his eyes, and yanks. Jack’s neck strains back, a soft whine in his bared throat as the unforgiving pull sends tears to his eyes. “What’s that?” 

 

“Yes sir, sorry sir!” 

 

His voice is breathless but steady. Long trained into a part of his brain. Baptiste looks down, watches a clear drop of precum ooze from Jack’s cock, unwaveringly hard. 

 

The old soldier is quiet, normally. Doesn’t like conversation. Doesn’t like making sounds in general, other than the occasional smug rhetoric or the increasingly frequent sighs that seems to exhale from deep within his soul. And Baptiste is okay with that, if you ask him. Okay with quietness. Of silent companionship.

 

Or he thought he was, until he heard it the first time. The soft, broken sob as the powerful body trembles, aching for release. The thrashes suppressed, the strength contained even as need claws at him from within. His mouth (with that painful looking scar cutting open the handsome, kissable bow of his lips) falling open with an instinctive vulnerability that drives him wild, wild with malice. 

 

“Hand.” 

  
  
There is unquestionable authority in his tone. A voice he’s practiced to perfection. Only his own erection betrays him, which Jack cannot see at the moment. The man shifts obediently. Back arched like he’s been trained to (he was), lifting his hand like a dog would its paw. 

 

He’s hated this man once. The shining glory of him, heavy armour and untouchable purity. Of an honour that is blind and deaf. Jean-Baptiste cannot count the number of times he’s wanted to kill this man since he’s fallen into his lap. Strangle this man in his sleep. Cut off a limb. Beat him till he breaks. 

 

Yet now, when Morrison’s open and submissive in his hands...he seems so deceptively weak. His flesh so real, his presence so small. The heat and scent of him, the scars underneath the heavy leather of his jacket, hidden but permanent. His heartbeat strong and loud, yet so erratic when he puts his palm over it.

 

Or maybe that weakness is real. Maybe this is the man behind the mask, the soul beneath that glory. Just a lonely man who’s dying to be touched, who will beg for it, who will do anything just to get Baptiste’s hands back where he needs them. So ready to break for him, wanton and shameless and so, so arduously humble. 

 

And so, that malice is tainted with lust. Like the heavy of blood in water. Spreading, spreading until he can’t distinguish which from which, until it fills his chest and brims over. Until it takes on something more and his eyes take on a different light as he watches the soldier sleep.

 

He pours lube onto Jack’s fingers. Pleased when he holds still for it, attentive and unquestioning. “Open yourself for me,” he orders, and watches the way Jack suddenly comes alive. Want, excitement, nervousness. A potent mixture that makes a familiar warmth pool in Baptiste’s groin. Jack gets back on all fours - the position Baptiste has ordered him to keep - only now he balances his weight on one hand as the other, warm and slick with lube, reaches between his legs. Baptiste moves, then, to get a better view. Squeezing his own throbbing, cock once, twice - but no more.

 

There’s something disgustingly beautiful about the way Jack stuffs two fingers into himself. His whines fucking poetic.

 

Baptiste huffs and moves to help. Heavy palms on the firm, tight ass, spreading his cheeks open. His own need flaring high as he watches up close how the red, puffy ring gapes and squeezes as the older man welcomes the stimulation, struggling at the awkward angle. Two quickly becoming three, as his pet eagerly stretches himself so he can take the hefty filling he loves. 

 

“Imagine it’s my fingers,” he mutters hotly, “imagine it’s me spreading you, touching you inside...Want me to touch your prostate?” He leans forward and kisses the tail of Jack’s spine, smirking when Jack shudders, whimpers and then slumps forward like he’s giving in to something. His face buried in the mattress, uneven breathes quickening. 

 

“Yeah, there it is. Good boy?”

 

“Sir,” he hears Jack gasp, but no more words come. He smirks when Jack bends further, reaching back and tries to stuff his pinky in too. He keeps hands on Jack, soft, teasing touches with his fingers. Light brush along his thighs, long firm strokes along his back. 

 

“Keep touching it. Show me how good it feels.” 

 

And then the noises start, and he knows his sub is in heaven. He keeps him there, lets the pleasure build and build. Jack’s cock is throbbing as it hangs, swollen and red and leaking. No attention is paid to it, and he doubts it’s on Jack’s mind anymore. Baptiste doesn’t need his dick, handsome and delicious as it is; and it’s been made clear. But now he watches, fascinated as it drools. The flow of the liquid never stopping. 

 

When Baptiste smacks his palm down on his ass, Jack cries out, his cock jumping happily. He can tell what the whimper is, too: Jack clamping down on reflex and bearing down as the pressure on his prostate spikes. And so Baptiste he does it again, and again and again, until Jack’s backside burns with oversensitivity and the pain accumulates and blurs into a white noise that drowns out everything else. Everything except Baptiste’s touch, his voice, the unrelenting pleasure inside him. His moans are unrestrained and loud, his back bowed and hips thrusting into nothing. 

 

Baptiste leans forward then, bows low, chest against Jack’s sweaty, heaving back as he kisses his shoulder, open mouthed and wet. So close he can feel his body heat, hear the soft gasp as Jack tries to press back against him but is stopped firmly by a hand on his ass pinning him still. There is another hand on his face. Stroking up his jaw, loving and feather light. 

 

“C’mon, Morrison…” he whispers, and he slips a finger in along with Jack’s, breath quickening at just how slick and hot Jack feels inside. So open and ready. “Show me you’re a good dirty slut...open yourself so I can fuck you up inside.”

 

And if Jack comes on his own fingers before Baptiste gets his dick in him...well, that’s his problem. He ain’t stopping now. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Baptiste is ridiculously hot. 
> 
> 2\. While this *might* look manipulative / coercive, I assure you there is no element of non- or dub-con. 
> 
> 3\. That being said, Baptiste is not an innocent puppy lover. It's so hard figuring out his personality when we don't even have voice lines yet, but no- he's not that. 
> 
> 4\. Baptiste / Jean / Jean-Baptiste / Augustin - why does all of this feel weird when you put it in dialogue? 
> 
> 5\. Comments are welcome. 
> 
> 6\. Wow am I really the only one to write Baptiste smut?


End file.
